


Rampant Industry

by Self_san



Series: When the Earth Kissed the Sky [4]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe-Gender Changes, Always-a-girl!Q, Gen, Q eats and runs, Q is awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:03:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Self_san/pseuds/Self_san
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Q must be everything everyone needs everyday and at anytime. This includes Bond's problem-solver. (Q finds it odd that she doesn't really mind.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rampant Industry

**Author's Note:**

> In my computer, this is saved under 'Q is the shit, everybody bow.' So. There.

Q’s new suicide tables have a modified semtex compound packed so tightly inside, that should Bond ever need it, it will _liquefy_ his head and burn his body to a crisp before the second compound activates and it explodes completely, sending any limbs Bond has left flying for well over fifty meters. It will also take out anyone in a ten meter radius, as well, so, there’s also that.

Q is quite proud of herself. She had always been a fair hand at chemistry, but this was something else _entirely._

She also half-blew up a nuclear bunker while she was working on it. Which, not so great, but it wasn’t like she was using her overpay for anything, anyway.

M wasn’t quite so pleased, but, well. He couldn’t sulk _forever._ He needed Q, after all.

Alright, was Q smug? Yes. Bloody hell, _yes._ The explosive went right along with the hair-pin that could pick locks and be used as a USB, mutating-algorithmic virus carrier.

Yes. Q was happy.

*

Bond had moved on from bothering Moneypenny and M and moved on to ghosting Q-Branch. Constantly.

If Q hadn’t seen him in three _separate_ suits at three _separate_ occasions, Q would wonder if he ever even left headquarters at all.

 _(She_ certainly didn’t seem to.)

And it also seemed like _he_ was impeccably dressed at _any_ hour of the day, which, Q actually thought was rather inhuman.

 _She_ couldn’t make it through twelve bloody hours without getting her trousers irrevocably creased and a teastain on her cardigan. Lord. And there was Bond, forever stylish, smirking at her wild hair and flying hands.

She stared at her tablet screen, fresh from a shower, her hair slicked back with water and cold around her ears. The women’s locker room had a constant supply of hot water, which was great, seeing as her own flat’s heater was on the fritz again. (Q had yet to have the time to grab a wrench and go and fix it. Her building's management _obviously_ wasn’t going to do it any time soon.)

And wasn’t it just her luck that when she needed him, Bond spooked out like a bloody ghost, nowhere to be found. And there was his tooth, sealed inside a blast-box at Q’s table, just waiting to be installed.

Sighing, Q scrubbed a towel through her hair, holding the towel around her body with an awkward elbow as she flicked through her work-mail, squinting at it with the only eye she could see close-up with. The screen was still rather blurry, but the damn thing had been chiming the entire time she had been washing her hair, so.

Important, important, lunch with Moneypenny, not important, urgent, urgent, urgent.

Great.

Q slid the tablet back into her bag and slipped her glasses up her nose, rummaging through her spare clothing for something to wear.

Unfortunately, all she had clean in her locker was a pair of holey, denim trousers and a jumper. Damn her for forgetting to take home the dirty articles of clothing she _had_ had. The _other_ button-up was eaten through with acid and had been regaled to the hazmat box in the lab, the trousers the ones she had just gotten out of to wash.

(Well, not that there was much to begin with: a few vests and pairs of socks, two pair of knickers, three cotton short-sleeves, and a jumper.)

Q was honestly just glad that she had a pair of knickers and a short-sleeve to wear under her trousers and jumper that she wasn’t even complaining about the lack of bra. It wasn’t like she was even really endowed to begin with, anyway.

The socks, she found shoved in the very back after she dug around for a bit. (For all her neatness while working, she could be a bit of slob, she admitted.)

Casting a quick glance around, Q dropped her hair-towel into the laundry-bin and unfolded the one tucked up under her arms.

A blast of cold air sent shivers up her spine as she unfolded her under-things and slipped them on, pulling the shirt over her head quickly and the trousers up her freezing legs. She hurried, hopping on each foot to pull on the knobby grey socks she had found, remnants of her physio-constructed knitting. They weren’t very pretty, she mussed, slipping back into her soft leathery loafers, but they got the job done.

Rubbing her hands briskly over her bare arms, she pulled on her jumper.

 _Lord,_ it was bloody _freezing!_

The holes worn into the knees of her denims didn’t help much, she mused to herself, casting a weary eye on the ragged edges of her cuffs.

She shoved the dirty clothes she had been wearing for the last two days into her locker, grabbing her bag and combing her fingers through her still-damp hair.

Quickly, she checked her things.

Phone? In pocket. Keys? Clipped to belt. Wallet? Back pocket.

Good to go, she barely stopped to cast an eye over how she looked. It had her flicking her fingers in annoyance as she left the room, tucking a few strands of loose hair behind her ears.

She looked like a bloody _uni-girl_ late for class, was what she _looked_ like: with her too-big jumper and her worn denims skimming the ground, her large glasses and her wet hair. _Damn_ it.

But at least no one would be able to tell her lack of brassiere, she tried to consol herself as she started down the hall that would take her to the stairwell she would take to go to M’s office. (Moneypenny’s offer to lunch sounded particularly appetizing right then.)

And that was something, right?

*

Moneypenny had a bag of crisps, a peanut butter sandwich, and an unopened can of Monster waiting for Q when she got there.

Q set upon it like a rabid dog--unashamedly stuffing her face as quickly as she could between large mouthfuls of her alternate caffeine dose. (Earl Gray was only good for so much. And Q had left her thermos in the Lab. The Monster would work. For a few minutes, at least.)

“Hungry?” Moneypenny asked amusedly, delicately eating her wrapped salad.

Q didn’t bother responding with words, just sending the other woman a _look_ that said everything she needed to say.

Moneypenny just laughed, her dark eyes grinning along with her mouth.

Q was tempted to stick her tongue out at her.

(She didn’t, too busy chewing.)

They were silent throughout the new few minutes that it took Q to finish her sandwich and pop open her bag of crisps. She crumbled the bag in her hand, smashing the contents to pieces, and then up-ended it all into her mouth.

She gulped it down with the last big mouthful of energy drink and stood to go, pulling her tablet from her bag as she did so.

“Thank you for the lunch, it was much appreciated--” Q started to make her exit.

Moneypenny and she rarely minced words, and Q had work to do.

“Have a good day, Q,” Moneypenny waved her away, another smile pulling at her darkly painted mouth.

And Q was back to work.

*

Bond was waiting for Q in the corridor right outside of M’s office, and he pulled up beside Q as she jogged down the stairs, brushing the front of her jumper off as she went.

Devilish crumbs.

And _Bond._

In a new suit. Looking as posh as ever, damn him.

Looking at her like he was trying not to laugh or smile.

“Q,” he greeted solemnly, a hidden smirk around his eyes.

Q sighed, longsuffering, hugging her tablet to her chest. It looked like she _wasn’t_ going to work on the way.

“Bond.”

They passed by a pair of interns, Q putting a hand on her bag to keep it from bouncing as she took the stairs at a jog.

She waited until they were alone, Bond a silent shadow beside her, before she said, “Your little, _ah,_ problem is ready to be fixed,” Q waved around her mouth.

Now, Bond turned utterly serious.

“Will it work?”

Q grinned, keying in her pass code to the Lab with fast fingers, leaning down for the retinal scan and thumbprint.

Bond followed in behind her as she went to the front of the room and tossed her bag onto her chair, setting her tablet on the desk. The minions continued their work diligently.

Q presented Bond the blast-box without further adieu.

“It will liquefy your head, burn your corpse to a crisp, and take out anyone in a ten meter radius surrounding you,” she informed him smugly.

Bond’s eyes widened slightly as he flipped open the lid.

He seemed to hesitate for a second, and Q could guess why.

“Go, have it implanted,” she told him. He was clearly itching to have the security of it back, though most wouldn't have been able to tell.

But he didn’t go, instead watching her with keen eyes as she leaned back against the edge of her desk, crossing her arms over her ribs.

He seemed to be looking for _something,_ his cool eyes roving over her face.

But for what? Q wondered as he flipped the lid back shut and slid the box into his pocket.

“My thanks, Quartermaster,” he said stiffly, dipping his head like he was tipping an imaginary hat, then turned on his heel and left.

Q shook her head, spinning to return to her work.

 _Bond._ She would never understand him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I am NOT British. I am NOT very good at writting a British character. HOPEFULLY, if I make a mistake, I will catch it. (Because I am beta-less, beta-free, inabstantia-betia, yes, I just made that up, and am utterly alone in all of my editing.)
> 
> If I do mess up, feel free to correct me.


End file.
